


Something There

by Avocado



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Reader Insert, Smoking, monster fuckin, slight stockholm syndrome i guess?, use of guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avocado/pseuds/Avocado
Summary: “There’s a monster out in the bayou. It lives where the trees are thickest, in an old mansion that used to belong to a plantation owner before he was shot dead with his whole family. If you wander off on your own, he’ll get you.”'Course, stories ain't always what they seem.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 108





	Something There

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been reading spacelabrathor‘s wonderful work and was inspired to do a batb au bc tbh batb au is the gift that keeps on giving

She leant over the body of her lover, and her hands were stained with his blood. She looked up at the assailant through the tears in her eyes and the smoke coming off the barrel of his gun.

“You’re a beast, Arthur Morgan,” she hissed, and even though there was sadness in her voice, the venom far overtook it, “and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.”

It’s the last thing he remembers before his world went back.

-  
She kept her word, he’d found out, once he came round. A quick glance in a still pond at his marred face was all it took.

He couldn’t go back to his friends, he knew it, not after everything he had done. And anyone else left in the world who might’ve helped him would take one look at how he looked now and scream for help.

He was all he had now.

So he found somewhere to live, somewhere abandoned, somewhere deep in the bayou where the gators would be the best guards he needed. 

And god forbid anyone who found him.  
-

Saint Denis was full of pretty buildings and prettier people. For the rich, of course. You and your family lived in one of the back streets. The poorer lot. Your father worked in the ironmonger, your stepmother was a maid to one of the fancy households, heck, even your half-sister was paid to sweep sometimes, but you?

Well, you weren’t too good at any of that. Before she had died your mother had taught you to read and read a lot, and subsequently you hadn’t picked up a lot of what other people called ‘helpful’ skills. Your sewing was mediocre at best and places just seemed to get dirtier whenever you tried to help clean. Horses didn’t like you a whole lot either. Yes, you could read a novel, and tell a story woven just from your mind, but around here that didn’t put food on the table.

Of course, not that the lower end of Saint Denis needed any more stories. There was one that held up just fine on its own, whispered between travellers and shared between schoolchildren.

“There’s a monster out in the bayou. It lives where the trees are thickest, in an old mansion that used to belong to a plantation owner before he was shot dead with his whole family. If you wander off on your own, he’ll get you.”

Of course, as a sensible adult, you gave this no thought. It was something your little sister had tittered about with her friends and nothing more. 

That was, of course, until she went missing.  
-  
The sound of your stepmother calling your name for the umpteenth time, now as a shout, pulled you out of your book and into the current world. She sighed at your distant-mindedness and crossed her arms, as if to say, what am I to do with you?

“Dinner’s gonna be ready soon, go find Abby and get her to come inside. Hey, also, have you seen that cut of beef I left out to cool on the windowledge?”

“No, ma’am,” you replied, dutifully, and she huffed.

“If someone swiped it I’ll skin ‘em alive. Anyway, go get yer sister,” as you walked out the house you heard her mutter, “and do something useful for once.”

You knew Abby’s favourite haunts. The two of you had been quite close for a while, that is, until she found out you were the town oddball. She’d sorta distanced herself from you when in public a few years back and you didn’t want to force her back to you. That would make things even worse. But still, behind closed doors, you were best of friends, and there was nothing she loved more than sneaking into your bed after dark and getting you to recite a story to her, something thrilling and dangerous or something so funny she’d have to clamp her hand over her mouth to stop herself from giggling and waking your folks.

Abby was kinda the golden child. She went to school, but not so much she became bossy; and she worked, but not so hard she became plain. She was pretty and sweet and your father’s favourite. You couldn’t blame him for that, she was your favourite too, in all the thirteen years you’d known her.

You knew the things that were said, how amazed people were you and she were related. How your father could go so wrong with one child but so right with another. But still, people tipped their hats to you in the street because they liked your pa and sister, and at least that garnered some sort of respect for you. You smiled back at them and kept your distance. It was an easy enough truce you’d fallen into with Saint Denis at large.

You find Abby’s friends nearer the outskirts of town than you’re used to, where the houses become fewer and fewer until they taper off into dirt roads. The little group are staring off into the distance, towards where the treeline starts. Abby isn’t with them.

“Hey, y’all seen my little sister?”

The looks they turn to you with make your stomach drop. They aren’t wearing the usual grins Abby’s company leaves them with. Instead they look gaunt. Scared, even. One of them holds a lantern in a shaking hand, casting shadows on his pale face.

“She, uh…” one of them begins, but stops quickly, his gaze dropping to his feet.

“Where is she?” you ask again, the smile coming off.

Another child pipes up, but won’t meet your eyes.

“She went into the bayou.”

Oh god. Every drop of your blood goes ice cold.

“What? Why did you let her go?”

“She said she was gonna prove the beast isn't real! She said we were ‘fraidycats and there weren’t nothin’ to be scared of and she wanted to show it!”

“But there are gators in there!”

“She took a hunk’a meat with her to throw to em if they got too close, she said she’d be safe!” the first child talks quickly, trying to justify this stupid decision. You don’t listen. Instead you shove him out the way, grabbing the lantern from his hand as you go, and start running after your stupid little sister.

-  
She was right to take the meat, reckoned Abby, as she keeps on down the less-trodden path. The gators hadn’t really been that much of a problem, the way everyone went on about them she thought they’d be at her heels the whole way. Only one of them was eyeing her dangerously and the beef joint she’d stolen from her mother’s kitchen had been a much nicer target than herself.

It was getting dark, though. She was hoping she’d remember her way back. She was going by map - there were plenty of old ones in antique stores, and she’d saved her meagre work money - but you can’t navigate by paper when there’s no light.

She was just about to give up and turn back when she saw a light in the distance. A little flicker, probably no more than a candle. But she knew she had to be on the right track. She’d been walking for hours now, surely, and nobody else could live so far in the bayou.

Her shoes were sticking in the mud so fierce she had to pull them out with force, but she kept on towards the orange glow with such speed it was as if she had totally forgotten she was there to disprove the existence of the beast.

Well, in fact, that’s because she had forgotten. She was too excited to remember not to be foolish.

She was right, it had to be a candle. She came face-to-face with the rickety old building, so vast and sprawling she wondered how it could ever be hidden out here, and knew for certain the only light in that kinda place would be fire, none of that new fancy electricity could make it this far. Any fear was replaced with headstrongness as she marched towards the door to knock, only to find the door had rotted away so badly in the conditions it swung open freely under the touch of her knuckles.

“Hello?” she called out, creeping forwards, wishing she had a light of her own. The place was huge, the foyer was bigger than her entire house, and there were even two flights of stairs either side of a huge old statue leading up to the second floor from here. Speechless, Abby tried to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. 

Of course her eyes were far too weak compared to a beast’s. She didn’t see the figure behind her until she felt its hand on her mouth, stifling a scream.

-  
You keep on through the bayou. It’s dark, far too dark for anyone with common sense to be going through it. The lantern is your only solace in the night, reflecting menacingly off the eyes of gators who decide that you aren’t worth the trouble. Someone seems to be looking out for you - in the dimness you can still see the imprint of your sister’s shoes in the viscous mud. You followed the little tracks deeper into the dense trees.

Every noise makes you spin round, every touch of breeze seems to be mistaken for someone stroking your hair. The thunder of your heartbeat is the only constant companion you have and it holds your hand as you try not to trip over the gnarled roots in your way.

You’re an idiot for being out here. But it’s for Abby. She could have tripped and hurt herself. She could have been attacked by an animal! She needs you. So you push on.

You almost miss the house completely. You only look up to check where Abby’s footprints have led and come nearly face-to-face with the entrance steps. You suppress a squeak. The darkness here is so all-consuming it can swallow anything. Even a mansion, apparently.

Even Abby.

You shake the idea out of your head. But then again, her footsteps seem to be leading straight into the front door… surely she hasn’t gone in there?

No. Come on, you reason with yourself. There’s no monster here. Sure, there’s the abandoned mansion, but the nastiest thing in this bayou is the swamplife. Abby will be in there. She’ll be too busy exploring to have realised how late it is and you’ll bring her home.

You push open the door and it creaks loudly. You push all trepidation to the bottom of your stomach and walk into the darkness.

“Abby?” you call out. You want your voice to come out strong but the nerves add a horrid shake. You aren’t some brave explorer. You just want to find your sister.

It’s faint, it’s far, but you hear Abby call your name back.

And you break into a sprint, following the sound of her horrified voice.

“Abby? Abby!”

She screams your name as she realises you’re really here, and you run as fast as your legs will let you. The house is a maze of haggard corridors and creaking floors but you hear her shouting getting louder so you know you must be going in the right direction. And when you hear the slamming of her little hands against the wood of a heavy pantry door in the kitchen you almost cry in relief.

“Abby? Are you okay?”

“I’m scared!”

“It’s okay, I’ll get you out!” You put down the lantern to tug desperately at the door handle with both hands, but it won’t budge. Has someone locked it?

“No, no, you need to run! If he finds you, he’ll get you too!”

“He? Who do you mean?”

“What are you doin’ here?”

The voice stops you in your tracks. Slowly you turn your head to see who’s spoken.

In the moonlight, silhouetted against a huge arched window, stands a figure. You can’t call it a man because it’s not. No man is so tall, has such long limbs and curved claws.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, “you’re real.”

“Get out,” he hisses, his voice gnarled and terrifying. You want to, dear god you want to, but your hand remains on the door.

“I can’t. You have my sister.”

“The intruder,” he snarls, venom lacing his words.

“Please, sir. She’s a child. She doesn’t know what she’s doing!”

“She’s smart enough to know not to trespass!”

His voice has crescendoed to a bellow and it makes you want to step back, but instead to dig on a hidden well of courage and stand strong.

“I don’t know what you want to do to her… but take me instead. Please.”

And that makes him pause. You’ve caught his curiosity.

-

His sense of smell had sharpened since the transformation. It was helpful, because he was able to scent the air when people were getting too close. Stepping too near his property. Usually they were just hunters off the beaten track who’d right themselves to the path more trodden but this time had been different. 

The little girl. She’d come to his house. Specifically to his house. She’d entered without his permission and started looking around. And if there was one little girl there would be others. More people, coming here and… seeing him. And if they saw him they’d drive him out, hunt him down like an animal. He couldn’t let it happen. 

So he’d thrown her into one of the spare rooms until he could work out what to do. Of course, he hadn't planned to keep her there indefinitely. He needed a kid hanging around like he needed a gator to bite off his leg. He’d leave her in there for a couple of days and let her get a bit loopy from the hunger then drop her off near the town. With any luck they’d take her tales of the beast in the old mansion as delusion from fatigue and leave it be.

And then, he’d smelt someone else. Following the girl’s footsteps. Another intruder in his house, and damn you were… gorgeous. And brave, from the way you stood up to him, trying not to flinch even when he could hear your heart beating faster than a rabbit’s. 

“Take me instead. Please.”

And even though he wasn’t going to keep your sister, he decided he wanted to keep you. You’d offered, after all, and after all this time, after all this time being alone…

Didn’t he deserve a little something for comfort?

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. You almost think he’ll turn you away… or something worse. But then:

“You’d do that for her?” he growls, his voice the softest you’ve heard.

“Yes.”

He reaches into his pocket of the tattered pants he wore, and retrieves an old key - sliding it into the lock and opening the door. Abby runs out into your arms and you feel her face is wet when she presses it into. She’s been crying. You squeeze her hard.

“Don’t stay,” she whispers, “I’ll… I can stay here.”

“Don’t be silly. Pa would miss you too much.”

“He’ll miss you too!”

You wipe a tear from her face and smile sadly, knowing that’s not really true. 

“It’s time for you to leave,” the beast states. “Can you ride a horse?”

Shakily, trying to regain her composure, Abby nods. 

“And the way back, you remember it?”

Another nod.

“Good. Then you won’t need this.”

The beast moves towards her, quicker than you expected him to be able to, and snatches something tucked in Abby’s belt. It’s some sort of paper which he rips into shreds before you can see what it is. 

“You don’t come back here, ever. If you do…”

The threat remains unfinished but you can fill in the blanks. Your stomach drops but you try not to show it on your face. You give Abby one more squeeze.

“I’ll be fine. I promise, honey.”

-  
Your sister looks over her shoulder at you one last time as the horse disappears into the darkness. You want to cry, fall to the ground in body-raking tears, but you won’t cry in front of him. You won’t. 

“And she’ll be safe?”

“He’s a good horse. Ain’t startled by much. She’ll be fine.”

You wonder why he has a need for a horse, he’s huge and surely can’t ride one comfortably. But you figure you shouldn’t push your luck by asking any more questions. He seems to get angry quickly.

“I’ll show you to yer room,” he grumbles, heading back inside. The sentence takes you by surprise. Room? You figured he’d just throw you back in the pantry. You were a prisoner, right?

You follow when he makes a grunting sound, annoyed that you’re still standing outside. Wordlessly you follow him up to the first floor. The steps creak loudly under you. Looks like they’d be difficult to sneak on. You tuck this piece of information back in your mind.

The beast stops at a set of heavy double doors and heaves them open. A fine spray of dust billows into the corridor and after a small coughing fit things settle down enough for you to see what he’s showing you.

It’s… a room. A nice room. Huge, actually. With a four poster bed and a washbasin, a bureau and an expansive wardrobe. Bay windows that look out to the front lawn. 

“You want me to stay here?”

“You can sleep in the kitchen if you want.”

“No, no,” you say quickly. You can’t bring yourself to thank him for it though. A gilded cage is still a cage. Your jail might be nice but it’s just that. A jail.

“You can go anywhere you want in the house, but not the master suite.”

“What’s in the-”

“It doesn’t matter!” he says, his voice raising. You drop the subject, not wanting to incur his wrath. “Get some sleep.”

He slams the doors shut. With very little else to do you head over to the enormous bed, throwing the quilt off to try and rid the dust that’s sat there unattended for many years. You crawl onto the mattress and finally allow yourself to sob until you slip into a dreamless sleep. 

-  
By the time you wake up a pale light is filtering through the curtains which you hadn't bothered to draw the night before. It stirs you unwantedly from your sleep and you grumble for a moment, telling Abby to shut out the sun - before you suddenly remember your situation and cold dread runs through you. 

You want to lay here and just do nothing, as if squeezing your eyes shut hard enough will make it all disappear. But you can’t. This is how things are, for now anyway. And as much as you want to evaporate into the walls instead you throw your legs over the side of your bed and leave the room to find your captor.

It’s a big house but he makes a lot of noise. It’s not hard to find him. He’s in the kitchen, at the stove, clanging and clashing there, muttering curses to himself. You don’t really know how to get his attention so just stand there for an indeterminate amount of time until he turns. He jumps when he sees you, almost spilling the pan he holds in his hand.

“How long you been there?” he asks, gruffly.

“An indeterminate amount of time,” you reply. You’re not sure if you’re trying to be irritating or funny. Either way he narrows his eyes and throws down the saucepan on the table.

“Breakfast,” he says. The pot has a huge wooden spoon in it and contains what you think is meant to be oatmeal. It doesn’t look like oatmeal. It’s kinda grey. Part of you wants to reject the offer of food, act like a brat and scream and cry until he decides it’s not worth keeping you here and either throws you to the swamp or kills you himself. But it’s at that moment your stomach lets out an almighty growl and you realise how long it’s been since you ate, so you sit down and decide maybe you’ll start acting petulantly tomorrow.

“Do you…?” you offer the spoon out to him. Some of the oatmeal slops off and slides onto the dirty table, solidifying almost instantly. He shakes his head.

“No, I don’t… I’m gonna go hunting,” he explains. 

“Oh,” you say back. You consider broaching the subject of letting you leave but you don’t want to spoil his reasonable temperament. You eat the lumpy oatmeal instead, hoping it will glue your mouth shut and stop you asking stupid questions.

He stands at the other side of the kitchen trying to find something to do with himself. It’s the first time you really get a good look at him, what with the sunshine pouring in through the curtains. They’re drawn shut but threadbare, keeping you hidden but letting the light inside. He’s hunched over but at least seven feet tall and huge, shoulders so wide you’re surprised they can fit through the doorways here. His whole body is covered in a layer of… fur? Hair?... the only thing peeping out is around his face where you can see beneath the black wolfen nose. 

He catches you looking and you go back to your oatmeal.

He should leave you to your food, Arthur thinks, not hang around here like a creep. What must you think of him? You’re probably scared. Maybe he wants you to be. God can you tell he isn’t used to having company, let alone a captive? What’s the tradition here?

Coughing to try and break the tension, he rises up and stretches out his long, muscled limbs. 

“I’m going out. To hunt. You uh… you clean up in here,” he tells you. You’re already tucked into yourself, hiding as far into the corner of the chair as you can. His announcement makes you jump. 

“Yessir,” you say. That he cringes it. Makes him sound like some stuck up lord of the manor. He goes to open his mouth, to correct you, to ask you to use his damn name, but the words fail him. Instead he just nods and leaves the room. You listen until you hear the sound of the main door closing behind him. 

-  
The hardest thing about cleaning is getting the oatmeal off the inside of the pan. It’s pretty stuck in there and takes some elbow grease to dislodge it. And then, with little else to do, you tidy the rest of the kitchen as best you can - trying to clear cobwebs and stow dishes where you’re able. But even that doesn’t take too long and soon you’re left sitting at the window of the lounge, staring through the dusty glass to the swamp outside. 

You wonder if Abby’s alright. You hope she got back to her parents okay, and she’s trying to do right and move on with her life. You desperately hope she didn’t fall on her way back, in the dark, alone, to get swept up in some gator’s unforgiving jaws—

You shake your head free of the thought. You can’t let things like that get to you. You have to hold onto the hope that this is all… all for something. 

With nothing else to do you wander the house. It’s pretty vast. Much larger than the place you used to live. The only thing you’ve ever seen that comes close to this are the mansions on the rich side of Saint Denis. Even then, even though they’re definitely in better condition, you’re not sure they can match this place for sheer size. Each door you push open reveals a room more surprising than the last. An old painting room with a ripped up-canvas sitting on a dusty easel. What was once a tea parlor with a chipped teacup sitting on a threadbare tablecloth. 

The next door you come to is a large, heavy one. The doorknob is worn from use. As you push and see the room inside it it dawns on you: this is the master bedroom. The one place you were told distinctly not to go in. 

You thought it would be better kept than it is. Instead, everything is just as dusty as behind all the other neglected doors. It’s hard to see in here anyway because the curtains have been drawn and don’t look like they’ve been opened to look outside for a while.

Or it’s to keep people from looking in, you guess. 

The only thing that catches your attention, apart from the dishevelled king-sized bed, is a single book on a rundown bureau. No, not a book, you realise as you turn it over in your hands, a journal.

You open it and flick through using the sliver of sunlight that’s managed to sneak its way in here. The writing is neat and dotted with detailed illustrations. It talks of a man, a man who used to run as part of a gang but grew increasingly disillusioned with the life, and who… shot someone? It gets harder to tell as you go on, the writing gets bigger and messier, and the pages towards the back look like they’ve been shredded into pieces leaving them illegible and unusable.

Is this… his journal?

Did he used to be human?

“What are you doing?!”

The voice shocks you so much the journal falls from your hands and clatters to the floor. The beast is there, in the doorframe, hunched over. His face and hands are covered in blood. Your whole body goes cold at the fear of being discovered.

“Please, I…”

“I told you one goddamn thing-”

He’s coming towards you now, big powerful strides. He’ll be across the room in seconds. You don’t know what he’ll do when he gets to you but in fear for your life to try something, you try a word that was dotted in that journal, denoting its author.

“Arthur?”

His whole body stiffens, stopping in mid stride as he passes a wardrobe. It’s had the desired effect… so you thought.

“Get out.”

“But—”

“Get out!”

With a roar he slams one giant, meaty fist through the door of the wardrobe, smashing it into pieces and showering the two of you with splinters. You don’t need to be told again, hitching up your skirts and scampering to the doorway, looking back for only a second before flying down the stairs and running out the front of the house into the heavy-aired swamp. 

-

It's not late in the day but there’s a fog over the bayou, obscuring your view of anything more than two feet in front of you. To be honest you don’t care. All you can concentrate on is getting as far away from that awful place as you can. 

Every time you consider slowing the image of the Beast’s fury wipes across your mind, a snarling portrait of absolute wrath, and you find the ability to keep stumbling forward. 

A particularly viscous patch of mud sucks in your foot. There’s a horrid squelch as you try and pull it free, but the vacuum is too strong. Your boot is staying put. 

“Come on, goddamn it…” you mutter, tugging at your leg. 

“Those ain’t pretty words for a lady.”

The voice takes you by surprise and you turn just in time to see the butt of a gun slam into your head, and then everything goes dark. 

-  
Blinking is agony. As you come round each flicker of your eyelids sends a shooting pain up your neck and into your skull. You wonder why it's so intense for a moment as your thoughts wander back to you, trickling slowly like molasses into your mind. 

You were running. From the beast. And someone attacked you. 

“Looks like someone’s coming round. How you feelin’, girlie?”

The beast’s voice, though it was gravelly and low, could hold kindness. This voice is cold and cunning and all too human. You pinch your eyes we shut as you can as protection against the glare of the sun and glance upwards. 

It was the man who hit you. He’s leering down at you with a gappy smile, the remaining teeth he does have rotting and yellow. 

“Who… are you?” you croak out. Your throat is dry so it sounds like you’re talking around sound paper. The man grins ever wider. 

“You heard a’ Colm O’Driscoll?”

Oh, shit. The look on your face betrays that yes, you have heard of him. 

“We work for him. Ain’t you glad we found you before someone nasty did?”

He squats down to get in your face. You try to move but quickly find you’re restrained, hands tied together with thick rope that prevents you from getting away. Seeing you squirm he moves his face closer to yours. 

“I think you’d better be grateful. And I think I know how you can repay me.”

He leans towards you. 

You clench your eyes shut and brace for the worst—

And then there’s an almighty crash. 

You open your eyes again to see the O’Driscoll laid out flat in front of you. And standing over him, claws bared is— 

“You?”

The beast looks at you for a moment before slicing the ropes binding your wrists. You rub the red raw marks they left but you don’t have much time to celebrate. A gunshot goes off, missing the two of you by inches. 

“C’mon, move!” he shouts, pulling you to your feet and dragging you a few steps to get your momentum going. You don’t need telling twice, instead hitching up your skirts and running towards the edge of the camp. 

Having heard the commotion more armed men are coming out of their tents. A cry of fear goes up when they see what they’re faced with. More bullets fly, but the beast is quick - he slams into one man, knocking him like a domino into his companion. 

“Come on,” he says again, grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you along. It hurts a bit but you don’t care, he’s doing it to get you out of danger. You dodge another bullet by the skin of your teeth but the beast isn’t so lucky. The slug lands in his shoulder and he lets out an almighty howl. There’s another man in front of him, the one who shot, who looks in terror as the beast raises one might hand to swat him out the way. He gets a face full of claw and falls to the ground. 

You’re at the edge of the camp now. You see why he’s led you here. Horses. A strong shire mare stamps her foot and whinnies, upset by the commotion of it all. The beast untethers her with his good hand. 

“Get on the horse,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Ah, but—”

“Oh goddamn it we ain’t got time!” he snaps. You feel a pair of hands on your hips and suddenly you’re being hoisted into the air and dumped unceremoniously onto the back of the mare, who whinnies in complaint as he climbs up after you. 

“Hold on,” he mutters, reaching for the reins and spurring the horse into action. You squeak as another bullet flies by your ear. As you ride off, away from the camp that's been left in disarray, you can feel your heart pounding just as loud as the horse’s hooves. And you wonder if it’s because of the fight… or if it’s because you’ve never had a man touch your waist before. 

-

It doesn’t seem anyone is following you. Maybe they didn’t think it was worth the trouble. The further you go the more the beast relaxes behind you, and the more you feel him slumping over. You risk turning to have a look and see that blood is matting his fur all down the arm with the bullethole. He’s lost a lot by the looks of it. 

His mansion is in view. You try and slow the horse down as you get there and inelegantly fall off the side of it as you try to dismount. 

“C'mon you,” you mutter, wrapping his good arm around your shoulders and helping him climb down. He’s obviously dizzy but acquiesces, heavily moving his weight from the horse’s back to you. You grunt a bit at it. He ain’t light. 

“You can walk?” you ask. He nods. You can see this close under his mane his jaw is knit tight in discomfort. “I need to take you to lie down. Can I… take you to your bedroom?”

“Yeah, fine,” he grunts. 

Navigating the stairs isn’t easy and he’s dripping blood as he goes, leaving little red circles dotted in the dust on the wooden floors. You unceremoniously kick in the door and drag him over to his bed. He lands heavily on the blankets and crawls up to lay on the pillows, letting out a groan as he gets himself comfortable. 

“Is the bullet still in there?” you ask, looking at the bloody hole in his arm. He shakes his head. 

“Naw. Passed through,” he looks at you, seriously. “You know how to clean a wound?”

“Uhh…” you manage, “do you have a book on it?”

“There’ll be medicine books in the library. But it’ll be easier for you to just grab the bandages and alcohol and I’ll talk ya through it.”

You pause for a second. 

“A library? There’s a library here?”

“Yeah. Down the hall.”

Ah. You hadn’t gotten there during your exploration of the mansion earlier. You’d been too preoccupied with… well… 

Your eyes dart to where the journal lies discarded on the floor but you don’t let yourself linger on it. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know you could read.”

Your hackles rise at that. “What do ya take me for, some country bumpkin?”

“... can I decline to answer that?

You go to snap back at him until he shudders from the pain. Okay, bickering can wait til later. 

“There’s a medicine kit in that bureau,” he says, nodding towards the other side of the room. You fetch it and unpack what’s there — some bandages which have seen better days, a half empty bottle of rubbing alcohol — and he gently talks you through what you’re doing. Making it sterile, cleaning out the wound, how tight to wind the bandages. 

“That okay?” you ask eventually, tying off your work. He gives it an experimental wiggle, clearly still uncomfortable, but better. He nods. The two of you sit in silence for a moment, not looking at each other directly, until you finally get the courage to pipe up:

“Hey, uh... thank you.”

“Eh?”

“For earlier. Getting me out of there. You didn’t have to.”

“No, I did. You wouldn’t have been there if I hadn't shouted at you. It weren't… gentlemanly.”

“You wanna get bygones be bygones?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “okay. Okay.”

Something akin to a smile flits between the two of you. Then you get to your feet. 

“So. How do you take your tea?”

“Preferably with coffee instead.”

-  
It starts out slow. A half-conversation, a fetched meal. Soon you find yourself sitting by his bedside with a book because well, someone has to take care of the patient. Just because his wound is healing well doesn’t mean it couldn’t suddenly become gangrenous or something. 

(It’s unlikely though, as the medical textbooks you’ve been flipping through tell you. On the flip side you feel much more equipped to take on a bullet wound now.)

He seems to enjoy your company and you’re happy to give it. Soon his appearance doesn’t bother you. You begin to notice more, the deep blue of his eyes, the strong set of a jaw under his mane. In the right light he could almost be handsome.

And not just that, but he’s kind. Interested in you. Asks questions. Nothing too probing, just your favourite book, the kinds of things you like to eat. Why you’re wearing what you chose today. You do get changed, too. The wardrobe in your bedroom is full of gowns. You find an old, faded yellow thing you rip the puffy sleeves off of to make it easier to wear. The dress doesn’t quite fit you and you’re not sure if it’s better to be covered in dust rather than mud but at least it’s dry, and clean… ish.

He seems to think it looks good on you, though. You catch it in the way he looks at you when you come into his room to read that day. 

“I just don’t get why you like it so much,” he says, later. You stop mid-sentence in your book which you’ve been spending the last hour or so reading out to him so you can both enjoy it. In theory, anyway. 

“Because it’s sweet. The intelligent heroine. The handsome, aloof stranger who shows his kind side. The patient, devoted love story,” you sigh, dreamily. He chuckles at you. It’s a rich, chocolatey sound you’re getting more used to and love to hear. He’s in a good mood. You try something you’ve not had the courage to. 

“Have you always been… like this?”

You see him pause for a second before sagging. You go to take it back but instead he shakes his head.

“Naw. I ain’t. I was… would you believe me if I said I was cursed?”

You would. 

“So you were… a man? Before?”

“Well I weren’t no dog,” he laughs a bit but it’s humourless. 

“What happened?”

“I… well. I used to… are you sure you wanna hear this? It ain’t nice.”

“If you wanna tell it, I wanna hear it,” you gently probe. Of course you’re curious but you don’t want to push him too far. 

For a moment you sincerely don’t think he’s going to relent. He looks so conflicted. And you’re not sure if it’s relief or trepidation that you feel when he opens his mouth and starts talking.

“I used to run with a gang. The Van der Lindes. We were… what’s that word? Infamous,” he says. You can’t hide the look that crosses your face. Even you, a nobody who has your nose buried too far in a book to notice the world around you half the time has heard of them. 

“Dutch, he was the one who ran it all. Came up with the plans, told us where we would hole up, all that. Called the shots. And for a long time, he was a good man. Took care of all of us. After all, we were a big group. Men and women. Even a child. But then… I don’t know. Something started to change in him. Maybe it was one too many jobs gone south. One too many betrayals. But his decisions started getting worse and worse and soon we were hemorrhaging money, always on the run. People hunting us.

“It weren’t no life. And the gang, we started dropping like flies as he kept making worse and worse decisions. I could see how scared everyone was getting. And someone had to do something.”

“And that someone was you,” you finish for him. You see his fists clench as he nods. 

“I shot him. I didn’t mean to, god knows. I just wanted to talk to him, reason with him first. But then it turned into an argument, he started accusing me of betrayin’ him too, callin’ me a Judas, and I could see him going for his pistol and —”

“So it was self defence?”

“It happened so fast. I drew first and put a bullet in his stomach. He bled out in minutes. Maybe he could have been saved if anyone… if anyone else had helped him. But we all just stood there and watched. Except for Molly, of course. She was his flame. When she found him she screamed at us, demanded to know who did the deed. And when she asked Jack — the boy — well he couldn’t help but look straight at me.”

You’re not sure how this all added up to the current situation but you remain quiet as he got his thoughts straight. 

“She always used to say she had old magic in her magic. Of course we all thought it was a joke. But Molly O’Shea didn’t joke. And so she… cursed me, I guess that’s what you’d call it. But before I knew what was happening I woke up alone in the woods like this.”

“Oh Arthur...” you whisper. You reach out to take his hand, but a second later your blood freezes. 

You called him by his name. 

You know how he reacted the last time. You freeze, thinking he might be angry again, thinking at least he might pull away. But you’re surprised to find he just lets you take it in your grasp. It takes both of your hands to wrap around his one giant one. You can feel the calluses on his palm.

“It weren’t your fault, you know,” you whisper. He nods but clearly doesn’t entirely agree with you. You know it’s pointless to argue. 

So instead you just keep holding his hand. 

He lets you call him Arthur from then on. 

-

You run out of canned food soon after, and after realising you can’t hunt successfully (the rabbits seem to actively laugh at your snares) you switch tactics. There’s a well-thumbed book identifying the local flora tucked away in the library which you bring with you around the perimeter of Arthur’s estate to forage for edible plants. On the third day of nettle soup, though, Arthur heaves himself out of bed. 

“Be careful-!” you say, going to steady him as he stumbles a little. He waves you off, retaining steadiness on his own. 

“I’m fine. I’m gonna go and see what I can hunt.”

“Are you sure? Do you feel up to it?”

He gives his injured arm an experimental swing. There’s no discomfort on his face when he does so you can assume it’s healed well. Thank god. 

“I’ll be fine. You were an excellent nurse.”

You blush and want to hide your face but he keeps going. 

“I didn’t deserve you taking care of me. Not after everything I did to you.”

You don’t know what he means for a second but then it filters through - remembering the actual reason that you’re here. You should resent him for it. In theory you’re a prisoner here. But…

If you’d left during this time he’d been recovering, would he have stopped you? And even now do you really want to go back home?

You realise all at once, you’ve chosen this. 

“You’d let me go. If I wanted. Right?”

He clearly doesn’t like the question, tensing up all at once, but he nods. 

“Then that’s good. But I wanna stay. Here. With you. If you’ll have me.”

Just as quickly as it seized up he sags in relief, giving you as close to a beaming smile as you’ve seen him. He remembers himself soon after though, covering his mouth and with a hand and faking a cough. 

“I’ll… I’ll be back later,” he tells you. You watch him lollop away and you feel something in your chest at the sight of him leaving. 

It’s sad to say you spend the day waiting for him; but you do. Sitting in the library at the window seat, glancing out the dusty pane every few minutes to see if he’s coming back. 

He brings home a deer. You’ve spent the day researching how to skin and clean it. You portion it up, getting your dress so covered in sinew you know you’ll have to wash it to within an inch of its life. 

All the time Arthur watches you with hunger in his eyes. But not hunger for the kill he’s brought home.

Home. 

Your home now. 

*

“She ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You let out a strained noise. Arthur doesn’t hold back a laugh. 

Ever since you let it slip in idle conversation that you didn’t like horses, Arthur has been trying to get you on one. 

“They ain’t nothing to be afraid of.”

You looked into the mare’s blank black eyes. She’s staring directly at you. Boring down into your soul. 

She whinnies and you jump and Arthur laughs even harder. 

It’s nice to hear him laugh. He’s been doing it more and more these days. Filling up the house with big hearty chuckles. The place has started seeming warmer. More like a home. 

“She’s nervous because you’re nervous! Just pat her nose. Get used to each other.”

Carefully you reach out a hand, screwing your eyes shut and grasping forward blindly. You shudder at the feeling of a wet nostril on your palm and feel your way up to her face. She doesn’t seem to enjoy your nervousness, it feeding her own, but when you gently stroke her muzzle with your fingers she seems to calm a little. 

“There ya go,” Arthur says, encouragingly, seeming genuinely quite pleased with your progress. You risk a glance up at him and he’s smiling widely at you. Your heart does a funny dance in your chest. 

“Next we gotta get you up on her back,” he says, and enjoys the look you give him immensely. 

-  
You leave the house too, going slightly further afield on each walk out. You find interesting plants for cooking and flowers which you press between the pages of a book because they look pretty, and god knows the house could do with some brightening up. Arthur stops watching you out the window as you leave with worry etched deep in his face because he knows you’ll always come back. 

It’s a routine that nestles its way into your heart.

One day on a wander you find the old O’Driscoll camp. It’s been abandoned ever since Arthur came and rescued you from it. There’s still scars left from that night all over the site, between ripped tents and decomposing bodies. The stench is unbearable but you loot the place from top to bottom, shoving a pack of cigarettes into the pocket of your dress and tins of peaches into your knapsack.

There’s one item that really takes you by surprise, though. Your eyebrows skyrocket when you see it there, and carry it carefully tucked under your arm back home as the sun sets.

“Hey, we got a gramophone?” you call out to Arthur as you get in through the front door. He’s beating the dust out of a curtain, something he’s been systematically doing since you complained the house was too musty a couple of weeks back. He scratches his chin with a claw and thinks for a moment.

“Maybe in one of the old bedrooms. Why?”

You hold up your prize for him to inspect. It’s a record. The cover is pretty dinged up but the disc itself looks like it will still play. He lets out a laugh at it.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Old O’Driscoll camp.” You see him tense up and quickly clarify, “Don’t worry, it was empty!”

You get dinner on as Arthur disappears upstairs to clean up (it’s something you’ve been strict on, he has to wash before he eats, otherwise he won’t bother to wipe the blood from his maw after a hunt and it puts you off your food awfully). You hear him come grunting down the stairs as he pushes his way into the kitchen you see his arms are crowded with the gramophone. He dumps it unceremoniously on the table and lets out a dramatic sigh of relief. 

“Sorry, didn’t realise it was such hard work,” you laugh, giving him a playful shove. Well, you try to give him a playful shove. He’s like a goddamn redwood. Unmovable. 

“Here, let’s try this thing out,” Arthur says as you pass him the record. He gently lays it on the turntable and puts the needle in place before cranking the thing to see if it works.

There’s static for a second before a tune gently begins to hum from the horn. You clap your hands together in delight.

“It works! Arthur, you’re amazing!”

“Aw, come on now, I didn’t do anything,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and looking away. You sway a little to the gentle melody before turning to him.

“Dance with me.”

“What?”

That moved him, like he was punched in the face. Arthur looks from the record up to you.

“Dance with me, I said. Come on, you have to know how, right?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“Consider it a favour. I ain’t danced with anyone in…”

Huh. now you think about it, maybe ever.

“Please?” you decide to end with.

Arthur stares at you for a long moment. You think he’ll say no. Part of you almost wants him to. It might be easier that way. Not having to deal with the feelings that are definitely piling up inside your body, getting so full they’re threatening to spill over. 

When he carefully, so carefully, puts his hand on your waist, you know those feelings can’t stay down for much longer.

You put your palm up on his shoulder. He’s tall. And strong. And under all that fur, not bad looking. You hope he can’t feel your heartbeat thrumming as your hands join and he gently begins to lead you in a basic step.

There’s space between your bodies when you start. But the longer the music goes on the closer you press, until you’re chest to chest with him. The hard plains of his abs sit under his shirt and you can feel them against your breasts, sturdy and strong. You wonder how it would feel to have your hands planted on them. Your fingers twisted in the hair there.

The music stops and you’re just left standing there. Touching. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not now, not yet, because if you do you’ll end up saying all of the things you can’t bring yourself to face. That you like him. That you care for him. That the idea of being without him would kill you. That no place could ever be home for you now but here.

Awh, dang it.

“Arthur, I --”

“Look, I--”

The two of you start speaking at once. It causes you to look up and lock eyes with him for the first time in a while. The two of you begin to laugh at the situation but it ends when you realise how close your faces are. Very close.

“I ain’t treated you well,” he says, lowly.

“No. Not at first. But you got better.”

“And you… even when I look like this?”

“No matter how you look, Arthur.”

He looks like he might cry. From what, you’re not sure. Relief? Gratefulness? Either way he brings in a deep shaky breath you feel too.

“God I could do with a cigarette,” he says, choking out a laugh.

“You ain’t got none?”

“Not for a while now. Jesus, I ain’t had a smoke in…” he goes quiet as he tries to count the time but it clearly eludes him and he finishes the sentence in a huff. “It’s the teeth. Can’t hold the cigarettes in my mouth no more.”

You take him in from this angle, his face lit up by the setting sun coming in from the window. The way his jaw is shaped means the tips of his teeth peek out from his lips. You can’t imagine it’s comfortable for him. Then again, maybe he’s got used to it by now. Carefully you extract yourself from his grasp, not letting yourself get too far away, and remove a cigarette from the box in your pocket. He watches you, eyes lit up like a predator, as you light it on the gas range before turning the oven off, and put it between your teeth.

“Then let me help you,” you say softly. Slowly you breathe the smoke into your mouth and throat before taking the cigarette in your hand, gently turning Arthur’s face towards you, and pressing your lips to his own.

His mouth is open either in shock or anticipation, but either way you gently blow the smoke from your body into his. He breathes it in and as the feeling hits his lungs he shudders with something that might be joy… or might be something else. Something deeper.

Your lips hover over his for just a little too long for it to be accidental. When you pull back his eyes are wide, staring at you, studying every inch of your face. You’ve never let him look at you so close up before. This close he can see every pockmark and imperfection on your skin. You can see every wrinkle and hair on his.

“That better?” you ask him, speaking through the dredges of smoke coming up through his lips.

“Yeah,” he says as he slowly exhales. His voice is low and gravelly with the smoke. The noise of it runs through your ears and lands in the pit of your stomach, warm and wanton. 

“You want me to do it again?”

“Forget the cigarette this time.”

And you do. You stab it out on the table before taking each of his cheeks in your palms again and kiss him, dear god you kiss him. Arthur reaches over and grabs your thighs, pulling you into him with a grunt. You moan at the feeling of his claws gently digging into you even through all the layers of clothes you have on. It spurs him on. He pulls you into him even harder as he hears the reaction. His kiss is wild, almost aggressive - as if he’s having trouble holding himself back. You couldn’t care less. Every scrape of his teeth against your tongue is ecstasy.

You’re crushed up against him now. This close you can feel the hardness of hIs pecs, the strong muscles the fur hides. The intimate feel of his body you know nobody’s had for years. You put your hand on his chest and tangle the fur around your fingers, tugging it gently. It does feel just as good as you thought.

He fucking moans. The sound goes directly to the apex of your legs.

“Damn, do that again,” the mutters into you, dropping his mouth to your shoulder which was freed from your dress amongst all the activity. He presses an open-lipped kiss to the skin there, rolling his tongue over the softness, nipping a little with his rough teeth. Obliging him you grab a handful of the thick mane on his chest and pull. He groans and bites down. You’re not expecting it and let out a little yowl.

“Awh, shit—” he says, pulling back, eyes wide with panic.

“No, don’t—I… I liked it,” you confess, voice low, the desire in your stomach making it come out thick and heavy. Arthur’s pupils, already blown wide, seem to get even darker as he comes back in all teeth and tongue on your shoulder. All you can do is gasp at the sensation of being caressed and gently pained all at once. 

He pushes you back against the table and stands between your legs, rocking his hardness against you through his pants. Even with all the layers between the two of you, you can feel how big he is. Hard and long his dick rubs your clothed cunt, the feeling giving just enough friction to make you breathe out a little moan. 

“That’s it,” he growls into the shell of your ear, licking his tongue out to run around it, “make those noises for me.”

“Ah… Arthur…” you whine, arching up into him to try and get a better feeling. He presses his face into your sternum, kissing what chest he can find with rough-open mouthed licks.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, and before you can ask why, he grips either side of your bodice with a claw and rips the thing open. Pieces of fabric flutter ineffectually to the floor as your breasts are exposed to the cold air of the kitchen. They don’t stay neglected for long, though, because soon his mouth is all over them, swallowing your nipples into his open mouth and tonguing them into hard peaks. His teeth graze your areolas - no, that’s not right, they do more than that, they fucking savage them, an you know you’ll have bruises on your breasts in the morning but you can’t find it in yourself to give a fuck. Instead you concentrate on pulling his hair as hard as you can, seeing what sorts of moans you can eke out of him, and rutting your hips up towards his.

Arthur bundles you and what’s left of your dress into his arms and leaves the kitchen. With one huge bicep he keeps your sturdy against him and with his free hand he works on what’s left of your clothes, scratching it into pieces and leaving it littering the stairs.

“Dammit Arthur, I liked that dress!” you fake-huff at him. In between nibbles at your collarbone he mutters something about replacing it, but when you look in his eyes you can see that he’s barely with you any more. His pupils are fully dilated and you can tell he’s losing himself in the moment to the part of the curse that makes him a beast.

You think you like it.

He bundles you into his bedroom, dropping you on his bed unceremoniously as he rips the last of the dress off you. All you have left on is your smallclothes which he reaches towards, wrapping one claw round the waistband of.

“Wait,” you manage, and he stalls, looking up at you. His whole body is heaving from the deep breaths he’s taking, almost like he’s scenting the air around you, ready to fucking devour you.

“Take yours off too. I want to see you.”

If you were worried he would be self conscious, you needn’t have been. So deeply into the moment he tears his shirt from his body, the buttons pinging against something across the room with the force at which they’re removed. He manages to free the button and fly of his pants but doesn’t get much further, clearly too frustrated with the details to give a damn. The only thing he wants, you realise with a delicious shudder, is you.

Arthur comes over you again, pressing your bodies back together, and kisses you. His fangs make it a bit awkward but the kiss is less about lips and more about tongues and teeth, a hot and aggressive thing. He licks round the inside of your mouth, tasting everything you have to offer. One hand scratches gently at your throat and you barely notice his other one drifting downwards until you feel the claw on your clit. You squeal and keen upwards towards him but he pushes you back down into the bed with his chest, keeping you where you are as he pushes a finger inside your slick entrance.

“Yer so wet…” he growls, his hot breath ghosting your jaw.

“Just for you, Arthur.”

It’s clearly what he wants to hear because he chuckles, he fucking chuckles, and pushes two more fingers along with the first into your needy cunt. You swallow him up effortlessly. You hadn’t realised you were this wet, and know that your panties will be less than useless now, just a soaked mass of lace. You reach down and fist your hand in them, ripping them off of your body.

Arthur laughs again when he sees what you’ve done and catches your hand as you go to throw them away. Instead he brings your fist up to his mouth and fucking smells them. He growls a juddery noise, so turned on he can barely talk. 

“Please…” he mutters, “I gotta be inside you.”

“Yes. Fuck. Yes, Arthur.”

With a slash of his claw he frees his cock from the confines of his pants. It’s just as big as you thought it would be. Long and curving upwards to his stomach, dripping with precum that’s managed to get onto the hair round his navel. You don’t get much time to examine it though because he takes it in his hand, gives it a couple of pumps, then lines up and pushes into you. 

You’ve never felt so fucking full in your life. The head of his cock rams along that sweet spot inside of you and you almost come right there. Arthur groans as he sinks down into you, biting your shoulder to stifle the noise he’s making. 

“Can I move?” he asks, his hips only giving little ruts, as if he’s scared he might break you if he goes too hard too fast. As an answer you reach up and bite down on his neck. He hisses and starts pistoning his hips, grabbing your hands and holding them above your head to stretch you taut. All you can do is throw your head back in ecstasy as he gets faster, impossibly faster, and with every shove of his hips against you his rough hair rubs your clit and his heavy balls slap it the top of your ass. Making a measured effort you clench the best you can around him. 

“Oh my god,” Arthur howls, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You don’t reply, instead lifting your hips so you can better get the feel of his cock hitting your g-spot. Arthur understands what the movement means and digs his claws into the flesh of your hips, angling you upwards so he can fuck you deeper, harder. Between the friction on your clit and the feeling of him inside you you’re not going to last for much longer.

“Arthur-!” you say as a warning, and he lowers his forehead down to yours, his strokes deep and penetrating now, and you can feel your breaths mingling in the same inches of space.

“I love you,” he says, completely lost in the moment, but the confession being enough for him to almost snap out of it. But you wriggle a hand free and catch his face in a caress, forcing him to look at you dead in the eye.

“I love you too.”

This time, when he kisses you, it’s not just hungry and devouring, it’s passionate. Full of something neither of you thought was possible. With one last thrust of his hips he comes inside you, triggering you to crescendo too. You desperately spasm your body against him to ride the shockwaves of your orgasm, letting the high last for as long as possible before you find yourself floating back to earth. In your blissed-out state you barely realise Arthur is on top of you, and he’s damn heavy.

“Get off me,” you grumble, good-naturedly, shoving him aside. He pulls out of you carefully and you hiss at the pain. You can’t lie and say it’s not fucking hot as hell to see him leaking out of you, though. Like solid proof this moment just happened. 

Arthur looks over to you. His eyes are back to normal now, even though his chest is still heaving. 

“Did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what?” you ask, genuinely.

“That you loved me too.”

“Of course I did,” you say quietly, pressing your lips against his again. This kiss is soft and gentle, putting into actions all the things you can’t say. You do love him. You do.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, quietly. 

You want to tell him the same. You want to tell him you’re never leaving his side. That this is it, now, forever. That your heart belongs to him.

But the moment is shattered, gone forever, as a rock flies through the window.

You scream and duck into Arthur, clinging to him in fear. With the pane smashed you can hear the sound of approaching voices. Arthur gets off the bed and runs to the window, carefully looking out past the curtain.

“Oh fuck,” he says, simply. When you join him you see why.

It’s the townspeople. You recognise them, all from the ass-end of Saint Denis. The butcher you frequented to get your meat from. The tanner who turned his nose up at you. The men and women who you believed didn’t care if you were there or not. All with torches and what weapons they could clearly pick up on the way.

And there, at the front of the pack, are your parents, and Abby.

And that fucking O’Driscoll with the rotten teeth that you didn’t kill at the camp. 

“Is this it, girl? This the place?” he roars at your sister. She steps back into your father’s arms, scared, but nods. Satisfied the O’Driscoll turns to the crowd.

“My friends, this monster has terrorised you for too long! And after taking one of your own, how can we stand to let him stay here? I say we kill the beast!”

There’s a roar of agreement from the mob. Your blood runs cold.

“No,” you whisper. “Abby… how could she…? I have to go and talk to them!”

“There’s no point,” Arthur says, and he’s already at his wardrobe, pulling on a fresh shirt and pants. 

“What? What do you mean?”

“You think they care about me? ‘Course they don’t, except for as some fucking hunting trophy.”

“But if I explained…”

“Would they listen to you?”

Your heart sinks. No. They wouldn’t. Not the weird woman from the edge of town.

Arthur comes forwards and puts a heavy hand on your shoulder.

“You… you should go back. To them. Your sister needs you. You don’t belong with me, darlin’. It’s a miserable life I’ve led, and it ain’t gonna be any better me dragging you down into it too.”

You furrow your brow.

“What?”

“Look at them. They’re you’re people. Your folks and family. I ain’t nothin’. I’ll always be nothin’.”

In much surprise to you and him, you slap Arthur across the face.

“Hey! What-”

“Now you listen here, Arthur. You’re not nothin’. Especially not to me. You’re a good man. A kind man. And if they don’t see it, who cares about them?”

You reach into his wardrobe, pulling on the best-fitting clothes you can find, cinching a belt to keep the pants around your waist.

“But if we’re going we better go now.”

Arthur seems to wage a war within himself. You can see it in his eyes. But when you reach out to take his huge, clawed hand in your own, he gives in.

“Let’s go.”

There are people in the house now. You can hear them clamouring up the stairs. Luckily, Arthur knows this place better than you do. There are secrets built into this place. Staircases behind bookshelves. It doesn’t go unnoticed that smoke is beginning to fill the air, though, and you realise with a heavy heart they’re torching it.

You slip out the kitchen window, Arthur grabbing you by the waist and lowering you to the ground, and head towards the stables. You’re almost home free when someone calls your name.

Turning around you see Abby standing alone in the garden.

“Oh, Abbs…” you say. She starts running towards you but stops when she sees Arthur, her eyes going wide in terror.

“No! It’s okay. He’s… he’s nice.”

She looks between the two of you, and sees the way your hands are grasped together. She might be young but she knows enough to understand.

“Are you running away?”

“... Yeah, sweetie. I guess.”

“You don’t want to come home?”

You can hear the hitch in her voice as she tries not to cry. You walk over to her, dropping to your knees, and pull her into a hug. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t wanna tell them, but that man, he was so angry, and I… and I…” she sobs a little. “Are you leaving because of me?”

“Oh, Abby. Of course not. I love you, so so much. But you gotta know, that place was never home for me. Nobody wanted me there. But he…” you gesture to Arthur who’s calming down the mare in the stables. He looks over his shoulder and gives an awkward wave. “... he’s home. Do you understand?”

Abby wipes her tears away with the cuff of her sleeve and nods.

“I hope you’re happy.”

“You too, sweetheart.”

You plant a kiss on her forehead before joining Arthur. He pulls you up onto the horse and as you ride away, you see the house go up in flames. Your sister waves sadly at you, standing as a silhouette in the burning mass. 

“My journal…” Arthur rumbles from in front of you, looking back at the house. You understand his feelings. He lived there for a damn long time, after all. It must have seemed like the only place he had in the world. You put your hand on his forearm.

“We’ll find you another one, Arthur. And you can write all your new stories in it.”

He looks down at you and smiles a genuine smile, before spurring the horse off into the night.

*  
The years have been kind and tough in equal measure. You’ve gotten used to the outside by now. No longer the pampered city girl you once were. Your demeanour and soles are as hard as rock, which is good, because as you’re picking your way through the brush towards the small camp you don’t want to be heard and have foregone shoes in favour of silence. You finger your shotgun in anticipation.

You turn to Arthur and cock your head towards the tent in the clearing. He lifts his muzzle up into the air, sniffing it, then nods.

You’ve finally got her.

You kick in the tent door as much as you can and step inside unceremoniously. The woman screams and tries to run back, but she’s trapped.

“Molly O’Shea!” you announce. “You’re a hard woman to track down, you know that?”

“Who the fuck are--- Arthur Morgan?” she asks, spying your companion behind you.

“Hey, Molly,” he drawls. She laughs, bitterly.

“I see you still managed to get yourself some cunt, then,” she hisses. You roll your eyes and jab her with the barrel of your gun, forcing her to fall back into her chair.

“Look, I really ain’t got time to do some verbal sparring with you, Miss O’Shea. I came here to ask you to break my fiance’s curse.”

Her eyes dart to the ring on your left finger and she sneers.

“I won’t do it.”

“Then I’ll kill you. No skin off my nose. Sure we’ll find someone else willin’ to help up who won’t have their brains blown out.”

Molly narrows her eyes at you, trying to see if she can call your bluff. She can’t. You’re serious. Aiming down the gun at her, you watch as she closes her eyes and begins to chant. 

Nothing big happens. Nothing amazing. But when she opens her eyes she looks at Arthur with disdain.

“Arthur, sweetie, did it work?” you ask, not wanting to take your sights off her.

“Yeah. It worked,” Arthur says from behind you. And it is Arthur. You recognise the voice, even though it’s not as gravelly as it was before, missing that gentle lisp from the fangs.

She’s done it. She’s changed him back.

You fire, painting the back of the tent with Molly’s skull (you’d be a fool to keep her alive and risk her casting the damn curse again) and turn to Arthur with a smile.

“Hello handsome,” you say, and Arthur smiles at you.

It’s nice to kiss a man without fangs for once.


End file.
